5:30 AM

The rain seems like a visitor more than a storm-

not a mindless mass of clouds

or simply witless weather

but the Sea itself, tired of it's lowly position.

So here it is-

banging on the door,

tapping on the window,

looking for a couch.

Papa

A little grimace

then a larger one.

Hard hands doing soft work

No punch clock,

no production line,

not the same kind of pain.

Love spreading frail roots

in the midst of a cratered countryside

the soil, like mist;

floating in front of the midday sun

and men, sweaty and tired,

fall to the ground unaware of the beauty-

save one.

A large groan,

a tug from a cold glass

and a clearing of the throat.

So much gore-

zeal for country followed by swift sentences-

an eye for an eye and all that;

but there was something beneath it all,

something overlooked,

sitting in the muddy trench

covered with the same dirt, sweat

and blood.

They were all moving forward

but there he was, unsure of his path-

his eyes open.

He sees the chaos,

the inches gained

and the flesh piling up on butcher's bill;

but through the fog

there is a figure-

his reason, duty be damned;

there was his peace.

The hard hands pause

knuckles crack, and wild eyes

stare out the window.

They see the sun,

they see the sky and clouds;

and when the weathered hands begin again

recounting the sunset with simple words on toothy paper

they write with love;

and we feel it.

Demain Matin

Treasures are nothing in the dark-

they are lumps of coal,

ridges on a distant mountain range;

they are shadows enveloped in the night.

Treasures locked in a glass case-

porcelain dolls never again to be held warmly by small hands,

teacups never again to adorn white lace tables;

they have lost their meaning

no longer coveted for purpose-

only finding small warmth in a cold,

passing gaze.

The treasures of dreams filed away-

thoughts of books set on distant shores;

sketches of paintings depicting truest love-

never to be penned,

never to adorn canvas.

Homes are turning into museums

graveyards for passing fancy-

what could have been

and what will never be.

You treasure the plaque on the wall

the china in its case

and the manuscript in the drawer

placed there years ago,

then you stare proudly while you yourself

gather dust.

The Danse Macabre

Pulling hair

knees together, shivering
under a worn, victorian desk.

His progress,
his life in words, written with ink and blood-
fluttering about the room, parchment choking the air
like so much confetti.
Thousands of pages, millions of thoughts
skimming through the dark room
glimmering in the light of the fireplace.

It's all decoration for the Danse Macabre.

So easy it was, to be inspired by
demons and death, waiting in the night
and now they are here;

slithering and gliding,

called in from the cold reaches of elsewhere
dancing in great circles-

a grand ballroom full of shadows
and stolen words.

They will dance about him now;
close by,
for the rest of his days.

He no longer shudders-
but smiles a great, terrifying smile-

he leaps to his feet,

flames and shadows dance in his eyes.

the dance would be had,

then-

more parchment soaked

with ink

and death.

inspired by Neil Gaiman and his own 'recollection' of the 'danse'.

The Northern Bay

Sitting in an old, wooden chair

on a single, musty pillow

trying to make something

meaningful.

Rain in the distance

threatening nothing but to clean the dust

from all about this house;

the garden is dry.

Noticing smudges-

old fingerprints on the inside of

worn reading glasses;

rubbing temples,

standing to crack vertebrae.

This place is often too loud

conversation, music;

laughter from across the road.

Tonight there is only the light rain

beginning to fall.

Candles are burning into the night

beside a rusted typewriter-

I am long since gone,

asleep in my bed.

Bravery and Sweet Cowardice

1.

There is a chill-

a window, cracked to the storm;

water falling, slanted with the rain

the world beneath a gentle waterfall.

Thunderclaps in the distance.

For a moment there is only the sound-

water and its fate;

then a wimper-

somewhere within the house

down the stairs

and in the warm, dank, darkness

the little voice cries softly.

Thunder shakes the house, closer now.

The gentle waterfall begins to intensify

ripping the paint from walls and loosening shingles-

Flowers are drowning in their beds.

A great light surrounds

white and pure, only a moment-

but the sensation lasts and lasts.

In the light, the tear-stained face-

found,

no longer sad

acknowledged then held close.

The last thunder crackles

no tears.

Warm arms, and steady eyes

staring off into the storm.

The window is wide open now-

the chill is welcome.

2.

Words tattooed on a speechless heart

declaring that one day

this being will speak without fear

again.

Every night, the same blue twilight

trying to find bearings

by moonlit highlight and starry outline

learning how to discern shadows

from the silhouettes, reality

from false hope

Hour by hour hoping for relaxation;

an empty mind

and an unclenched soul-

only sweat and clammy skin haunts

as the light of what is tomorrow

comes too soon,

burning yesterdays eyes.

Sitting in soiled sheets,

feeling sickness take grip.

Moments of inspiration-

flicking the nightstand light on,

hope manifests itself in the way of

barely discernible scribbling in worn,

coffee-stained journal pages;

the lamp flicks off again but there it is-

the dawn, full and immovable

what hope is there for the speechless heart

when every night, creativity is dashed on

dawn's shimmering shore?

Curtains are drawn and the being shuffles

about the dimly lit apartment

once craving the daylight to observe the world anew,

now hiding within cool walls scratched by the fingernails

of a 'common' consciousness,

fighting for normalcy-

singularity

then murdered by sweet eccentricity.

Pale and broken,

it waits beneath the bed,

amongst the mildew of forgotten laundry,

waiting for the night

and another try.

Words will come.